


The Beast of the Bagne (The Collared Remix)

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Sexy Toulon, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Collars, Consent Issues, First Time, Kneeling, M/M, Master/Slave, Power Imbalance, Remix, Sexual Slavery, Sexy Toulon, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Valjean slowly looked up, and when their eyes met, heat rushed through Javert once more with the relentlessness of the swelling tide. Valjean held his gaze.And then, very slowly, he sank to his knees.





	The Beast of the Bagne (The Collared Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/gifts).
  * Inspired by [La Loterie de Saint-Valentin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603956) by [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor). 



It was late summer, close to autumn, when Javert was called into the commissaire’s office. The window was open, for the day was still hot, and the breeze from the sea brought some much-needed relief from the heat that even now sweltered in the salles below, where bare skin gleamed with sweat.

Despite the heat, Javert was impeccably dressed, even though the sudden summons to the commissaire’s office had come without warning.

“Javert,” the man said, looking tired from the heat. Unlike the prisoners sweltering below, he had a handkerchief to pat the sweat from his brow. “You were the youngest man to be made adjutant-guard, is that not true?”

“Indeed, monsieur,” Javert said respectfully. “And I hope I have proved worthy of the trust you have placed in me.”

The commissaire made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Your recent suggestions about the shift system have been quite useful. Quite useful indeed. I only wish all my guards had your diligence. Now, Javert, I will not keep you long. I wanted to offer my congratulations.”

“Sir?”

“As you are the youngest man to have made adjutant guard, it seems right to continue that tradition. Congratulations on being our youngest senior guard, Javert. If you keep up that excellent behavior, you will make it far, mark my words. Of course, I need not admonish you that I shall expect the same excellent behavior in your new position.”

“No, monsieur,” Javert said respectfully.

In his head, everything swam. For just a moment, dizziness nearly overwhelmed him; before his eyes, he saw a proud neck bend, strong thighs part, the eyes that had haunted his days for so long finally giving up their secrets.

“Brodeur will have your new quarters ready. The privacy should be to your liking. And of course,” the commissaire smiled faintly, “now you might collar a submissive of your own. Have you one in mind already?”

“I will think about it, monsieur,” Javert managed to say, his throat dry as thoughts of Jean Valjean on his knees before his bed took over.

The commissaire held out his hand. “I think you will do well with some additional responsibility,” he said kindly. “And whoever you’d chose would profit from your discipline. You’ve been beyond reproach for all your years here, Javert.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Javert managed.

***

The new quarters were far from luxurious, but Javert had never so much space and privacy before. Instead of a simple, narrow cot, the bed was large enough that a man could enjoy himself with his collared submissive there. There was a desk with a chair resting against the wall with the window, so that he could do some of his work in the comfort of his own quarters, instead of staying late in the offices after his shift. There was a small table, too, so that his submissive could serve him a meal there if he so desired, although of course he was now expected to take his meals in the mess at the table of the other senior guards.

Brodeur had prepared the room for him. His uniform with the new bars already affixed to it hung by the door. But Javert had no eyes for it.

Instead, his eyes were drawn to the desk. From the window above, light fell in, painting a golden rectangle on wood that was smooth from years of use.

And in that rectangle of light, a collar rested.

Javert’s heart gave a painful jolt as he stared at it. For ten long minutes, he remained unmoving before at last, he made himself reach out and take hold of it.

The leather was stiff, but felt smooth as he ran his fingers over it. There was a ring at the front, so that a chain or a leash could be affixed. His name was embossed into the leather. JAVERT, it said, the same way his name had been written inside the uniform he had received when he had first started to work here, so many years ago.

He ran his fingers along the collar, then suddenly pulled back. In alarm, he stared at his hand as between his legs, an all-too-familiar heaviness stirred, his heart pumping heat through his veins.

Gritting his teeth, he fought back the surge of carnal desire. And then a slight wind came up once more, a breeze carrying in the salty air from the sea, banishing the stink of the bagne that had been ever-present in his old quarters.

Javert stepped up to the window and took a deep breath, ignoring the courtyard below him to look out at the sea. When he finally turned away again, his eyes fell onto the collar once more.

Was it not true that the beasts below benefitted from the discipline meted out by senior guards? Had not the commissaire himself placed his trust in him? If such a respected man thought that it was time Javert meted out discipline and dominance in the ways of the senior guards, then perhaps Javert was wrong to doubt himself. He could not step back from a duty the commissaire himself had recommended him for.

And if Javert was still aware of that place he came from, all the better. After all, the blood of criminals in his veins made him no better than the convicts sweating in the heat below. It was iron discipline that held him irreproachable, walking the path of the law instead. Such an awareness would keep him answerable to his own conscience, when other men might be led astray by carnality alone.

The commissaire had promoted him. Was not this what he had wanted for so long? The time had come at last. Even in this, Javert would not fail, nor disappoint the men who had trusted him.

***

He waited until evening arrived, the air slightly cooler, the shadows long, before he entered the courtyard.

He had thought that he might find the prisoner close to the walls again where one might catch a breeze carrying in the salty sea air. Instead, the man was standing in the shadows at the other end of the courtyard, unmistakable even from a distance. His shoulders were broad, and although he was only of medium height, everything about the brawny body covered by the red blouse gave off an impression of dangerous, barely contained power.

He did not move when Javert came towards him, until Javert stepped into the shadow cast by the wall behind Valjean. Then, at last, Valjean came forward, his eyes respectfully lowered, although Javert had seen Valjean study him with a curiosity approaching insolence before.

Javert swallowed when he stopped in front of him. The prisoner’s eyes were still averted.

Heat throbbed in Javert’s veins, his blood thick and hot, his body still aroused—as it had been since he had first picked up the collar. He had not thought of what he might say, and now, no words would come to him. Instead, he simply held out the band of stiffened leather, his pulse thundering in his ears.

Valjean slowly looked up, and when their eyes met, heat rushed through Javert once more with the relentlessness of the swelling tide. Valjean held his gaze.

And then, very slowly, he sank to his knees.

Javert exhaled, the heart in his breast still beating as rapidly as if it wanted to escape from his ribcage. He watched as his hands came forward. He nearly flinched as his fingers came into contact with Valjean’s neck; the convict’s skin seemed feverishly hot.

Even so, Javert forced himself to breathe calmly, denying the urgency that was pulsing painfully against the fabric of his trousers. His hands did not tremble as he slowly fastened the collar around Jean Valjean’s bent neck, only dimly aware of the thing inside him that was growing even now: some monstrous animal constructed of a decade of dreams and fantasies he had fought at every waking hour.

But now, at last, such desire had been given a legal mantle. Now, so many months after he had first laid eyes on that brawny frame and felt that powerful body shudder and submit to his will, the man was his in truth, and such things as Javert felt were not the unbridled, monstrous lusts of the convict blood inside him, but the iron discipline such men needed to better themselves.

“Come,” he said. He did not turn around to make certain that Jean Valjean was following him as he crossed the courtyard, in the full view of the convicts and junior guards who were outside at this time of the day.

***

“You will wear clothes outside, now that I have collared you.”

Valjean obediently inclined his head. The red blouse he was wearing was stained with dirt from this day’s hard work, wet with sweat. Javert’s eyes lingered at the opening that bared his throat.

Valjean’s skin gleamed, and Javert could see the dark curls of hair that covered his chest.

Desire still ran through him, his body feeling as brittle as metal that had been heated and stretched to near breaking point. Every beat of his heart throbbed low between his legs. Even so, he made himself turn away from the tantalizing vision before him without laying a hand on the man, who by the customs of the bagne was now his.

“But not in here,” he added, his chest growing tight. For a moment, he felt a wave of terror at how easily lust had overwhelmed him. Perhaps the commissaire had been wrong to give him such responsibility. How could Javert be accountable for the discipline a man like Jean Valjean needed when Javert could not even control his own body?

He licked suddenly dry lips, deliberately looking away from Valjean. “In here, you will not wear clothes. If you have behaved so far because you thought that as my collared submissive, your life in Toulon would be easy, you are wrong. I still expect—”

He broke off. He had just turned back again to the window, and thus caught a glimpse of Valjean—who, without a moment’s hesitation, had begun to remove his clothes at his words.

The sweat-stained red blouse already rested orderly folded on the floor. As Javert watched, the yellow trousers followed. With Javert’s eyes on him, Valjean slowly sank to his knees again, calm despite the sweat that ran down his chest even now—calm despite the thick shaft that stood at attention between his legs. It was flushed a lustful, heavy red, even after the many years Valjean had served in Toulon.

“I still expect exceptional behavior,” Javert continued finally, his voice rough. “As my collared, I will hold you to even higher standards as before. Any privilege you have gained you can just as easily lose. And I will not hesitate to discipline you with my own hand, if you give me reason to. Is that understood?”

“Understood.” Valjean’s eyes were gleaming, yet still as unreadable as they had always been. “Master.”

The word ran through Javert like a lit fuse. He reached out to touch Valjean’s cheek, and Valjean quietly submitted to that touch as well, his eyes still gleaming. Javert drew his thumb along Valjean’s mouth, pressing it to Valjean’s bottom lip. Something inside his stomach was twisting and turning, not unlike the sensation of falling from a great height.

A moment later, Valjean leaned into the touch. His lips brushed Javert’s hand. His mouth was warm, and at the contact, something in Javert broke, like a dike unable to withstand a sudden storm tide.

He pressed his thumb into Valjean’s bottom lip, seeing before him those countless occasions when Valjean had served a guard. The sight had haunted him; even in later years, when Valjean had learned obedience and did his duty readily, the sight of swollen, red lips parted around a heavy member had stirred a hunger inside Javert’s own breast that he had ruthlessly suppressed with the same discipline he demanded of the men he guarded.

And yet, now that Jean Valjean wore his collar, the time had come that Javert might mete out discipline in such ways as well. Now he might demand the submission a man like Valjean should offer those above him, and know himself not only in the right, but doing society a service by teaching Valjean the discipline he needed.

Without needing to be told, Valjean’s hands went to the fastenings of Javert’s trousers. There was no rage in Valjean that he could see, none of that emotion he had observed, so long ago, when Robert had chosen Valjean in the lottery. Instead, Valjean was calm—except for the heat in his own eyes and the way his member stood erect even now, proudly virile, showing off the brutish instincts that were surely still at the heart of Valjean.

Then Valjean succeeded in freeing Javert’s prick, and just like that, he closed his mouth around it.

The sensation was indescribable. Javert, who had denied himself for so long, flung out an arm, blindly grasping for the wall to keep himself upright. Valjean’s tongue was wet and soft, and it wrapped around him like velvet, rich and sweet like sin itself. Without hesitation, Valjean drew him deeper in, taking all of Javert’s prick into his mouth to serve him, as biddable—as eager—as if he were the commissaire’s submissive himself.

Javert could not last. Scant moments later, his other hand grasping hold of Valjean’s hair, release made him tremble—and even then, Valjean’s mouth was warm and soft around him, swallowing obediently.

***

Life was different as a senior guard. For the first time in his life, Javert had quarters of his own he did not have to share with another—save for the man who had accepted his collar.

The first evening, when he returned to his bedroom, he found Valjean waiting for him.

Valjean was naked. In the quickly fading light that fell in through the window, his powerful muscles shifted beneath his skin, the window grate painting stark shadows onto broad shoulders. The collar circled his throat. He sat completely still, by all appearances completely at peace despite the crude virility he exuded even now.

Then Javert’s gaze fell to between his legs, and the sight there gave the lie to the man’s tranquility. Between the powerful thighs, his sex was red and swollen, and when Javert took a step closer, a shiver ran through Valjean.

Still the man did not move, and for all that his body looked painfully aroused, he did not show the look of guilt Javert had seen on many a convict’s face who had been caught illegally laying hand on what was now the state’s property for his own carnal satisfaction.

The rug Valjean was kneeling on was new. Javert had bought it with the sparse coin he had saved up, on the day the commissaire had informed him of his promotion. Before, Javert had possessed neither the privacy nor the indulgence for such a luxury. But with the uniform and the private quarters of a senior guard waiting for him, something made him hesitate that day when he walked past a stall where a woman was selling used clothes, pots, fabric, and a small selection of rugs.

Something about the rug caught his eye. It had been woven of warm wool, and when he reached out to touch it, it was soft against his skin.

The colors were a little faded, but treated well, the rug would do its duties for many years to come.

Javert could not quite say why, but he had purchased the rug then and there—the first luxury he had allowed himself ever since he had earned his first coin as an adjutant-guard.

Now, as the light of the day faded away and Javert began to ready himself for the night, he watched as Valjean stretched himself out atop that rug.

Once again he remembered the strong thighs bending at his touch that day, so long ago, when he had parted them with his cudgel and Jean Valjean, all brutal strength and sweating muscles, had submitted to that when he had not submitted to any other.

His throat went dry when he remembered Valjean’s gaze, thinking of the nearly unbearable heat of his mouth, that sharp, fierce joy as Valjean offered his throat for the collar.

“Sleep,” he told Valjean, who watched him silently from dark eyes, the powerful body stretched out in quiet obedience on the rug in front of his bed.

For a moment, Valjean’s eyes lingered on him, Javert’s own prick aching with a sudden, fierce need.

Then Valjean closed his eyes.

***

“Ah, Javert. I had been wondering about you.” Maugin nodded at him from across the table—the table where the senior officers took their meals, and where now a place was set for Javert as well.  
“But I should have known that I needn’t have worried. As always, you were simply focused on achieving the very best. I have no doubt your discipline will do him good.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Javert said respectfully as Valjean served his meal, just as the other senior officers were served by their own submissives.

Valjean knelt by his side, as obedient as any other collared man at the table. As Javert’s eyes lingered for a moment on the contrast of black leather against Valjean’s vulnerable throat, his prick ached, an appetite filling him that could not be sated by the food on his plate.

Again he thought of Valjean’s powerful thighs parting for him, the way the man had given in to him, always, from that very first moment—he who had obeyed no other.

His throat tight, he stared at the plate before him. He paid no attention to the food, although it was of better quality than what he was used to, as he fought down the sudden rush of heat inside him.

To distract himself, he took hold of a morsel of fish. He held it out, and a moment later, Valjean took it from him, his lips warm and soft as they closed around Javert’s fingers. Unhurried, as tame and well-behaved as the commissaire’s own collared, Valjean’s tongue wrapped around finger after finger to clean away the juices. A moment later, he pulled back.

The heat between Javert’s legs continued to burn until the ache of carnal need seemed as impossible to quench as iron heated to a white-hot glow.

For a moment, Javert let his eyes linger on Valjean’s face. He still could not say what the man wanted. Their encounters, his impeccable behavior—had it truly been to facilitate this? Had discipline at last shown an effect, had the man truly submitted to the law? Or was there perhaps some deeper plot, a plan hatched during his long years in chains?

Then Javert’s gaze fell between Jean Valjean’s legs, where despite the lose-fitting trousers he was wearing, the heavy size of his swollen shaft was easily visible.

Perhaps the explanation was simpler than that. Was it not true that men like Jean Valjean lacked the understanding of the inescapability of the law, of the order that sustained society? These convicts were molded from weaker stuff, their desires straightforward—and thus, so were the lessons taught by the law.

Perhaps Javert should be content with that explanation. After all, wearing his collar and serving his desires would keep Jean Valjean docile, his bestial urges driven out of him by Javert’s mastery.

Nevertheless, even now it seemed to Javert that somehow, intangible, there hung a thread between them. There was something alert about Jean Valjean, which—for all of his easy docility—kept niggling at Javert.

***

That evening, when Javert entered his quarters, the sight of Jean Valjean, naked and on his knees by his bed, took his breath away anew.

Once more, hunger yawned inside him, a greed so intense it was nearly bestial, as though the hunger within him had taken on a human face at last. For a heartbeat, it seemed to him no different than that of the convicts sweating in their red cassocks.

Javert almost flinched back from that terrible countenance—and yet, it was he who wielded the law in this place. He mastered such bestial urges, he did not bend beneath them. So why, with Jean Valjean given into his care, should he flinch from what discipline demanded?

Were Jean Valjean an honest man, he could have demanded of him the same discipline that kept Javert upright, walking a righteous path despite the weakness of his own blood. But Valjean was a convict, and now, a submissive who willingly wore Javert’s collar.

To deny discipline now would, perhaps, be just as wrong as sparing the whip when its use was warranted.

Again Javert felt the thing inside him rear up. It had become a familiar companion: the hunger that had grown nearly monstrous, his own shaft so engorged beneath his trousers that it seemed impossible to wait even one more moment.

Valjean was still watching him, the prisoner’s eyes dark and secretive in the fading light. Had he spent his time in Javert’s room wondering what would come to pass during the night? Had he dreaded this moment? Or had he, perhaps, yearned for it with the same ardent ache that had Javert nearly blind with his body’s desires?

Valjean had bent his head willingly. And had he not once asked Javert about this exact event? Had it all come to pass just as Valjean had hoped—had planned, maybe? Was this part of a scenario Valjean had conjured with his secretive looks and sullen eyes?

Or was it not simply the surrender of a prisoner to the inevitability of the law, the realization even a man like Jean Valjean might have: that to follow the word of the law of Toulon and show ready obedience was the only way to avoid the torments he had known? That this way, Valjean might even taste pleasure again, if his surrender had indeed been willing?

A moment later, Javert realized that he had been staring at Valjean for long minutes. Outside, it had grown darker. He could hear the sound of gulls crying sharply as they hungrily circled the skies, and below, the ever-present sounds of the sea.

His bed was empty. He inhaled. Then he nodded towards it.

Valjean moved smoothly, massive muscles shifting beneath his gleaming skin as he spread himself out on Javert’s bed. Javert moved past him to light a lamp. When he turned back to Valjean, his breath stuck in his throat, for Valjean had turned around to lie on his back, his red, painfully erect member jutting against his stomach.

His bare, massive thighs tensed. Then, still looking at Javert, Valjean bent his knees, lifting and parting his thighs, powerful haunches on display for Javert.

Javert had kept his supply of lamp oil out of view, for to look at it had inexplicably embarrassed him the past night. Now, swallowing against the dryness of his mouth, he took it out of the small cupboard and placed it on the nightstand.

Nothing in Valjean’s face changed, his eyes remaining dark and patient as he waited, spread open for Javert’s use.

Again Javert felt a moment of embarrassment as he stripped, baring his own body to Valjean’s eyes. So far, the acts of carnality he had observed had taken place in the open. But to strip now, in the privacy of his own bedchamber, with no ideas but those of Jean Valjean on him, gave the moment a strange gravitas.

It would not do to forget that he was in charge of the prisoner, Javert told himself, that it was his collar encircling Jean Valjean’s neck.

And yet, to disrobe before a submissive for the very first time, although that man wore his collar, nearly made him hesitate for a moment.

A heartbeat later, he forced back those qualms. His hands did not tremble as he pulled off his uniform, carefully folding his clothes and putting them away orderly, disregarding the brutal hunger that had his own shaft achingly erect. Only when that was achieved did he step forward again, reaching out for the oil once more.

He poured a generous measure into his hands, smoothing it over himself. Valjean’s eyes were still on him. Dark and alluring, they seemed to study him as if to Valjean, he was as unreadable as Jean Valjean was to Javert.

Then Javert stepped forward, joining Valjean on the bed, and Valjean’s thighs parted readily to cradle Javert between them.

Javert rested a hand on a powerful thigh, his fingers lightly digging into the skin to feel the strength of the hard muscles. Valjean’s breath sped up, but still he did not speak or protest. When Javert moved over him, he spread his thighs further in obedient surrender.

Javert’s prick, flushed with heat and slippery with the oil, brushed against Valjean’s buttocks, and a wildness took hold of Javert he had never known before. Instinct made him thrust forward; once, twice, his shaft rubbed along the crease between Valjean’s buttocks, the friction wringing a gasp from Javert.

On his third thrust, Valjean arching against him, his prick found its aim, Valjean’s body yielding to him as Javert slid inside.

The sensation was overwhelming. Sweat dripped down his back as he found himself clutched in indescribable, tight heat. Inside, Valjean, the rough-skinned beast of the bagne, was softer than sea foam, his body no less hot than his mouth had been.

A cry escaped Javert, his hips coming forward hard once more. Dimly, he realized that one of his hands had found Valjean’s shoulder, pinning him down onto the bed as he panted above him, even though Valjean had not sought to escape. Instead, Valjean was breathing heavily as well. He made small, helpless noises as Javert labored above him, his hair damp with sweat and those dark, impenetrable eyes closed as last as he arched against Javert.

Javert’s fingers tightened around Valjean’s shoulder, his nails digging into skin as he groaned. The pleasure was so keen it nearly hurt, something inside him, which he had kept half-starved for so long, now glutting itself on the yielding flesh and Valjean’s cries of surrender. There was a pleasure in it that was far greater than those bestial urges he had secretly feared were at the heart of his own hunger.

The animal need to rut was there as well, making his own body ache with the instinctive need to spend himself inside Valjean. But deeper than that instinct ran a need even more powerful, a part of his soul he had not dared to explore lest he find it wanting. That part thrilled now to feel this powerful body yield to his desires, Valjean’s body being made to surrender to his erect length again and again. Valjean’s hair was dark with sweat as he panted in Javert’s arms, helpless at the pleasure of knowing himself Javert’s captive—Javert’s _submissive_.

Again Javert drove himself inside Valjean, feeling him tremble at the deep penetration, the muscles of Valjean’s stomach contracting. Between them, Valjean’s neglected shaft was hot against his skin. How many days had it been since Valjean had been granted release?

Now, with every thrust, Valjean’s length was trapped, squeezed between their bodies while Valjean arched and groaned in mindless need.

And yet he would not come, not unless Javert allowed him such release.

There was a sweet, sharp triumph in that thought that took Javert’s breath away. As he bent over Valjean, he fastened his lips to his throat, his mouth brushing the leather that encircled Valjean’s neck, his tongue tasting the wild flutter of Valjean’s pulse.

Desperately, Valjean arched his back, his hands coming to clutch at Javert’s shoulders as his thighs spread even farther.

“Master, please!”

The hoarse desperation of the word hit Javert like a glimpse of blinding sun after a month in the darkness of the cachot, burning itself into his mind.

In that moment, he felt that Valjean was completely revealed to him, the mystery of those dark, sullen eyes illuminated relentlessly by the blinding light of this new truth. There was no guile in the desperate plea, no secrets or hidden plot—nothing but an all too natural instinct. This was what made Valjean respond to him, something the harsh instinct inside Javert responded to with equal eagerness. For one heartbeat, all secrets were out in the open, the truth elegant and sharp like a sword drawn from its sheath.

Even as he spent himself inside Valjean, he felt Valjean’s own release come in helpless, wet spurts against his stomach. The man’s breath came in quick gasps, Valjean’s eyes squeezed shut—no longer hiding any secrets, for all had been revealed to Javert in that moment of blinding truth.

Exhausted, satisfied, his urges satiated at last, it was not until he was drifting off to sleep that Javert realized that Valjean was asleep next to him. The powerful body had gone soft and vulnerable by his side instead of curling up on the rug on the ground.

Javert wrapped a possessive arm around him, then allowed sleep to claim him.

***

The late summer days passed quickly, the air carrying the scent of the changing season. By the time the evening breeze no longer brought a welcome breath of cooler air, but a hint of the coming chill that would soon find its way into the salles where men were yet sweating in their chains, a greater change had come to pass in the world at large.

One day, when Javert had just finished his routine walk along the sea-wall, a group of envoys from Paris entered the bagne of Toulon.

By that same evening, every submissive who had been collared, willing or unwillingly, had been uncollared. Under Napoléon’s rule, there was to be an end to the bourgeois practice of sexual collaring, or so an imposing envoy with piercing gray eyes had explained to Javert.

Those who had worn a collar had already been released from it, returned to chains and salle and the rough company of the other convicts. Yet when Javert entered his chamber to pack what little he possessed, having accepted the envoy’s offer to enter the ranks of the police under his patronage, he found himself stunned by the sight that waited there.

It was Jean Valjean, awaiting him—now dressed in the red blouse of the convict once more. And yet, there, around his throat, the smooth leather still rested, a stark band of black against his skin. There was the path Javert’s fingers had drawn so often with a greed he had not known was hidden within himself. There was the path his mouth had followed, night after night.

Valjean’s eyes were calm as they looked at each other. Valjean knew, Javert realized; had he somehow missed the news the envoys had brought, he would have awaited Javert on his knees by his bed, naked but for the collar. Instead, he wore a convict’s garb once more.

So why had he waited for Javert here—and why was the collar still in place around his neck? Was it possible that no other guard had dared to lay hands on the beast of the bagne, even if it was to free him from the collar?

Impossible. The very notion was ridiculous. Valjean had been the very model of a prisoner—especially ever since he had consented to Javert’s collar.

“Why are you here? Haven’t you been told?” Javert demanded, closing the door behind himself before he walked up to Valjean.

Valjean watched him calmly. “I thought you might want to remove it yourself. Master.”

Even now, something inside Javert roused at the word, something sharp and hungry and dangerous springing to attention with the cruel swiftness of a dominant’s whip. He did not fight down the instinct that he had explored only for the past few weeks—but neither did he give in to what it seductively whispered of even now.

The law was explicit, after all. The envoys had brought them Napoleon’s orders, and Javert would not break even the smallest word of it, no matter what the need within him demanded.

“No more of that,” he said roughly. “That’s all changed now. The law no longer demands such things of you.”

Even so, he raised his hands to Valjean’s neck. His fingers sought out the fastening at the back of it. He could not look away from Valjean’s face. Even now, those dark eyes tormented him with the secrets they held. Had he ever truly seen to the bottom of them? Or had not those moments when he thought that he had seen to the heart of Valjean, when the powerful body had strained and trembled beneath him in a submissive’s complete surrender, hidden even deeper, darker secrets beneath?

His fingers teased open the clasp. He watched Valjean swallow as the leather fell away, watched, entranced, as his Adam’s apple shifted beneath the skin, tendons tightening, a pale bruise to the side of his throat betraying the moment, a week ago, when Javert’s mouth had left a mark in a moment of shared ecstasy.

Then the collar was in Javert’s hand, no more than a simple length of leather now, and before him stood the convict Jean Valjean once more. He looked no different to the man Javert had watched for so many months since he had first arrived in the bagne.

“I am leaving,” Javert said abruptly.

Something flickered in the depths of Valjean’s eyes. Was it relief? Regret?

For a long moment, Valjean watched him without averting his eyes, while Javert as well found himself unable to turn away.

At last Valjean inclined his head. “Sir,” he said, and even now, something in the soft roughness of the word felt like a promise, or perhaps a final goodbye.

Jean Valjean left Javert’s chamber to return to the salle. Javert did not see him again before he departed.

Even so, when he left Toulon at the envoy’s side, deep at the bottom of his belongings there was a worn collar of soft leather, and in his dreams, for many years to come, he heard that rough convict’s voice whisper the word _Master_ once more, those fathomless eyes keeping their secrets even in his dreams.


End file.
